Force Shadow
by darkknight uk
Summary: On the arid, crime riddled planet of Tatooine, Obi Wan Kenobi lives a solitary life meditating and keeping a silent vigil on Luke Skywalker. A chance encounter with a shadowy figure will change everything he knows about loyalty, friendship and The Force.
1. I: Meditations

A Long Time Ago In a Galaxy Far, Far Away…

Force Shadow

I

Faces.

Voices.

Images.

Feelings and sounds.

They swirl and mingle, fuse and dissolve.

They all become light and he plummets toward it.

The light writhes and flounders like a restless beast, devouring infinity in its dazzling tentacles.

At first he is afraid, for he knows that within the light are his birth, his death, the future, the past, a swirling maelstrom of time and space beyond his comprehension.

He feels his heart racing, though he knows he is beyond such physical trappings as a circulatory system. Fear floods his being. But fear is a product of organs, glands and hormones, and in his present state his fear is as redundant as the skin, flesh and bone he has left behind.

[-_there is no emotion, there is peace_]

He tries to calm himself, teaches himself to love the light that he is hurtling towards.

As he reaches it's writhing, blinding mass he feels his love reciprocated in its dazzling fallout.

The love intensifies with proximity as he falls further toward its nucleus.

Here is so much love, so much knowledge, so much fact. He knows that to contain it would lead only to madness and death.

[-_there is no death, there is the force_]

Instead he gives himself to it slowly, in measured increments. Lets it flow through his loosely bound consciousness.

Like a raft weathering a mighty storm he lets it toss him about, plunging him into waters of life and death.

Some old and familiar, some new and unsettling.

Images, sounds and sensations flicker through his being, rippling and shimmering as though seen through water.

He sees himself aged fourteen, dutifully polishing an azure blue Ilum crystal under the watchful eye of his benevolent master.

"The crystal is the heart of the blade-"

The image shimmers, flickers, fades

He is now four years old, his knees hurt as he is unaccustomed to kneeling. A familiar squat, green form hobbles past him. When it speaks its voice is croaky and frail yet booming with hidden power. He raises his eyes to it. At its core shines an aura of brilliant white light. Warmth and love radiate from its very being.

"Surrender your mind to The Force, you must!"

He feels himself yanked out of his body and irresistibly pulled into the white light.

Now, as though falling through a canyon of white fire he sees himself dangling over a cavernous pit. Above him a man, a heretic-

[_at last we will have revenge_]

-sneers down with unspeakable malice, a soul tortured by infinite hatred. Beneath the aggressor's flesh he sees a core suffocated by the roiling black smog of hatred, pierced every now and then by lances of scarlet light.

As he sees his younger self vault to the lip of the pit he falls down into its inky black depths, the shadows rolling into black smoke. As he falls through the smoke he feels it become thicker, and denser until he is seeping through it like rain through soil.

The black smoke singes and chokes his spirit, offends his very being. While his first instinct is to react with disdain and hatred, there is an infinite sadness within its depths.

At the bottom of the pit, a tiny pale smudge expands, flickers and takes shape. Forms a human head

Illuminated by a sparse, flickering light the disembodied face of a once great man fills his vision. Piercing, dark eyes filled with a dozen lifetime's worth of pain and regret, stare at him imploringly.

"Forgive me."

The old man's voice is rich and deep and, yet pathetic.

And now he is falling away from the head and the voice and the sadness. He tries to form his thoughts into words.

"I…"

The effort is excruciating. It is an effort that the body cannot know and few minds can achieve.

"I forgive you Dooku. The Force forgives you."

And the offending smoke somehow recedes. As if a sigh of relief breathed straight from the soul has caused it to dissipate.

Now he is falling and rising at the same time. If he had a body the sensation would turn his stomach.

He feels his essence lurch, carried on a tide of infinite power. The light creeps in at the periphery of his vision, streaks, like sunshine lancing into his being. It is the most exquisitely joyous and painful feeling imaginable.

He feels the light propel him with unimaginable speed into flesh, into the world of the material.

He fills his own body in a place and time unfamiliar to him. He stares past the sapphire beam of his weapon at a huge, dark and abominable foe.

Darth Vader towers over him. The hideously scarred face of his protégé and friend forever masked by a new face of jet black plasteel. The dark lord lurches, his ruby blade searing a smouldering gash into the wall behind him.

Back in the world of the flesh, his body feels leaden and unfamiliar to him, his muscles and joints are stiff and he barely manages to duck under a shower of sparks. A voice fills him with a surety and a confidence that feel unfamiliar to him.

"You can't win _Darth_,"

He spits out the Sith title like an insult,

"If you strike me down I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

He spreads his feet, body poised, saber held forward in the classical Shii Cho style. He is aware of his movements but also of the fact that he is not controlling them. At least, not THIS version of him.

The half mechanical Sith Lord strikes, the shock of the deflected blow running through his blade, along his arms and through his body.

With absolute serenity he knows that he is going to die and with this realisation the light consumes him again.

As it sucks him into its billowing white folds the pain is stronger and more intense than before. He knows that its power will soon consume him and there is work still to be done in the world of the flesh.

He pulls, straining to resist, a tiny fish swimming against the mightiest of tides. He feels its infinite power pulling him in each and every direction, threatening to shatter his consciousness and drag him into its all encompassing mass.

He must escape.

He _must_.

* * *

Obi Wan Kenobi's eyes snapped open. He was kneeling once again on the hard, mud floor of his home on Tattoine. He was breathing heavily, his robes were soaking with sweat. It plastered his hair and beard to his face.

He waited for the sense of weakness and disorientation to pass. It seemed to take longer every time.

Wearily he rose, his knee joints clicking in protest at the effort. His legs and hips felt stiff, the onset of arthritis irrevocably taking its toll on his body.

He trod to the bathroom of his humble dwelling and drew some water, filling the clay sink embedded in the wall.

After splashing his face he mused at the age and battle ravaged face that stared up at him. Approaching sixty in years there remained an intensity in his grey blue eyes that was both scholarly and combatant. His hair that had once been sandy in colour was now a steely grey, streaked with silver, his beard almost pure white. It was an old face but it was also full of the character that younger faces tended to lack. He reached for a rough brown cloth and dabbed himself dry.

On tired feet he padded to his favourite chair. He would read a holotab for a while and then get something to eat before making his usual, covert visit to the Lars homestead.

He felt again the creak of his aging joints as he settled into his seat. A dull ache growled in his thigh from his almost forgotten wound on Geonosis. He winced at the memory of the white hot jab of Count Dooku's lightsaber.

From a stack of holotabs on a nearby side table he selected a highly illegal tome of collected Jedi philosophies that he had acquired some years ago on the black market. Indeed, he thought as he ran his hands over its smooth surface, thumbing the activation button, his mud hut was filled with contraband. Jedi lore and philosophy, musings of the great political and historical minds of the old republic, holocrons of saber techniques, even a few modest examples of Old Republic art were unabashedly strewn about his dwelling. Fortunately Tattoine seemed as beneath the notice of the Empire as it had been of the Republic.

"Or perhaps Lord Vader deliberately shies away from his childhood home." He mused.

His thoughts stirred something dark and strange inside him and he no longer felt comfortable seated. Instead he made his way over to the large, wooden chest that occupied the greater part of his utility room. He removed a familiar plasteel cylinder.

Anakin's saber.

In its engineering every bit as unorthodox and reckless as its owner. The energisers had been customised to allow for a higher energy output than was strictly advisable. This allowed for a slightly longer and fuller beam but often caused the onboard microprocessor to short out. Every few days he would ceremoniously dismantle it, polish the lenses and the crystal, and carry out the repairs that time and inactivity made necessary for such a weapon.

_Why did you keep it?_

A voice from the past. Speaking to him through the veil of death.

"Qui Gon."

He turned and saw the pale, spectral form of his old master swathed in an aura of blue light. He could not help but smile upon seeing his old friend's face.

"I see you more clearly every day, it seems."

_Indeed. You are improving in your meditations__, my friend. This afternoon was a particularly impressive effort._

Obi Wan nodded and managed a tight smile.

"It certainly took its toll on me physically. To tell the truth I remember very little."

He stared down at the metal cylinder in his hand.

"A shadow. Something… ominous."

From out of the past two baleful eyes stared up at him through a wreath of fire. Dragging itself up a hill of soot and ash, driven by hatred and rage. Cracked lips snarled at him…

"I hate you. Those were his last words to me."

Tears welled in his eyes. The years had not stripped the memory of its pain.

_Those were Darth Vader's last words to you. __You will commune with Anakin Skywalker yet, my dear Obi Wan._

"Yes." Psychologically he had tried to distance the persona of Darth Vader from the young man who had been his apprentice but it was not easy. Anakin's personality was composed of so many shades between the dark and the light.

"As far as I am concerned, Darth Vader betrayed and murdered Anakin." Obi Wan said decisively.

The ghostly Jedi nodded sagely.

_And that is why you kept Anakin's weapon? As though there were a part of his essence trapped within the plasteel and circuitry?_

Obi Wan ran a finger through his beard as he considered this. His mind drifted back to the aftermath of the desperate battle on Mustafar.

He remembered the strange emotional distance with which he retrieved his fallen opponent's weapon from the scorched, ashen ground. He remembered how numb his hand felt to the burning of the metal cylinder in his hand. It was with uncharacteristic mercilessness that he strode back to his ship. It was not until some time later that he found himself able to weep for the man he left for dead on that awful planet.

"At the time. I don't know why, but… It… It felt like the right thing to do." Obi Wan murmured gravely. He hung his head, lost in the sadness of the memory.

Qui Gon strode over and put an ethereal hand on his old friend's shoulder. He did not feel the physical contact, of course, but Obi Wan's lip curled into a half smile at the sentiment.

"I shall give it to Luke, when he is old enough."

He stared intently at the silver hilt of the saber, his thumb rested lightly on the activator switch.

He nodded, self assuredly.

"Yes. I think that Anakin would have wanted that."

Obi Wan looked up to discover that he was alone. The small mud hut seemed cavernous and empty for want of his dead master's presence.

He took two paces forward and activated Anakin's lightsaber. The warrior within him, the man who was once a general in the Clone Wars, delighted secretly in the _snap-hiss_ of the blade's activation. It adored the power that hummed within its glowing blade. He knew there was vanity in such thoughts, and an aggressive pride that was almost dangerous. He also knew that he trusted in his Jedi training to keep these feelings in check.

He cut a few arcs, experimentally in the air. Parrying and countering the blows of an imaginary enemy. His movements were slower than they used to be, his techniques too long out of practice but the aging Jedi's swordsmanship was still impressive in its technical mastery. He remembered a teenaged Anakin's gentle chidings in one of their regular sparring sessions.

"You do everything far too much by the book, Master." His roguish smile illuminated by the blade of his saber.

"And if that were such a bad thing, then there would be no book, my very young apprentice." The older man countered.

Anakin was a showboat. He leapt and twirled unnecessarily. His defence wide open in cocky defiance. He trusted far too readily on his affinity with the force rather than on time honoured martial techniques honed and perfected over generations.

That had been his ultimate downfall in their last battle.

Obi Wan grimaced at the memory and the blade of Anakin's saber flickered slightly with an angry buzz, as if it were also upset by the painful reminiscence. Holding the saber out at a safe distance Obi Wan peered intently at the blade. A few sparks spat angrily from the hilt and the humming blade seemed to sizzle erratically.

The energisers needed replacing.

The ones Watto had sold him had not been correctly calibrated. He would go to the market and get replacements before visiting Lars' moisture farm.

With a sigh he shut down the saber. Again his eyes appraised the weapon, the innocuous looking hilt bearing the scuffs and scratches of untold glorious and terrible battles.

With a grin he flipped it over it in his hand;

"Sentimental old fool."

And tossed the lightsaber back into the trunk.


	2. II: Confrontations in Mos Espa

II

"Hello there."

Blue wings twitched nervously.

The junk dealer froze, still facing the three rusty mech droids he had been rebuking.

One of the droids peered around the squat, blue form of its master to appraise their new visitor. A three fingered, leathery hand gave the droid an admonishing clout. With an almost imperceptible sigh, the blue creature turned and threw up its arms.

"Ben!"

Agitated blue wings fluttered impotently as the creature grinned with practiced sincerity.

"Good to see you my old friend. You look great! Been working out, huh?"

He padded arthritically on scrawny legs that seemed barely able to support the bulk of his flabby body. Every now and then his wings flapped ineffectually, unable to bear the age and weight of their owner.

"We are not old friends, Watto," Obi Wan replied sternly, tossing two charred capsules at the junk dealer's webbed feet. "_You_ are a swindler and _I_ am a disgruntled customer."

The Toydarian stared up at the silver haired Jedi, his aged face arranged into a carefully prepared expression of shock.

"The energisers-"

"Are completely miscalibrated. You have led me a merry dance, Watto, and I am not amused." Watto stood agape, Obi Wan pressed the attack. The merchant was immune to mind control techniques but was not beyond more conventional means of manipulation. "I will accept nothing less than a full refund _and_ a set of correctly calibrated energisers to compensate me for my inconvenience."

"Now wait, just a-"

Watto tried to interject but was silenced by Obi Wan's raised hand.

"Because, my blue friend, a man living in the dune sea such as myself has need of certain, mechanical items. Air conditioning equipment, moisture vaporators, speeder supplies, a man in my position needs things like these to survive in this harsh climate."

Watto raised a claw in protest.

"I'd love to help you Ben but-"

"Such items as these can be purchased from any dealer in Tatooine, Watto. The money that I give you can just as easily go to one of your competitors. So, if you desire my continued patronage, you will do the right thing to aid a valued customer.

A full refund, Watto! That's 200 Peggats and a set of _functioning_ energisers."

There was a long pause. The three small, rusted mech droids looked from Watto to the charismatic new visitor and back again, their basic programming only vaguely understanding the exchange between the two.

Watto scratched his bristly white beard, his mind nimbly performing risk assessments and profit and loss equations. His wings, shuddered agitatedly, as if in protest at the junk dealer's thoughts. He cursed under his breath.

"I do this for you, and I'd better not hear you've used another merchant. Ever!"

"I give you my word as a gentleman." Obi Wan replied solemnly.

"Let me have a look what I got." muttered Watto, before disappearing into the shadowy, cluttered recesses of his shop.

Obi Wan allowed himself an unseen smile. Watto was shrewd, thrifty, a skinflint even, but he was not without principals. Despite the hard edged manner with which he had to be treated (give a Toydarian merchant an inch and he'll take a parsec), Obi Wan had a great deal of affection for the little character.

The smile soon died on his lips when a flurry of emotion caught his attention through the force.

_Fear, panic, anger._

They drifted towards him as though borne on the sweltering breeze. In the corner of his eye the aging Jedi caught a glimpse of the dreaded white armour.

Storm Troopers.

There were six of them, gathered around the stall of a middle aged pottery dealer. She was shouting at their leader in a language beyond Obi Wan's comprehension. From behind the tattered sack cloth of her clothing peered a terrified little girl.

All around them the merchants, pilots and commuters went about their business, heads bowed, deliberately oblivious to the Storm Troopers' activities.

The woman was felled by the butt of the commander's rifle just as another trooper wrenched the little girl from her grasp. Obi Wan tensed. His hand flew to the hilt of the lightsaber at his belt. Even as his fingers touched the familiar, cool metal he knew that to take arms against these Imperial drones now would be incredibly foolish. He could not afford to blow his cover here on Tatooine. His responsibility to protect young Luke was too great. He could only grimace after the armoured troops as they bound and gagged the little girl, leading her off into the dark confines of the space port proper.

"Why the long face, huh, Ben? You've come off very well out of this."

Watto had returned with two brassy new energisers clutched in his three fingered hand. With his other hand he tossed Obi Wan a small bag of coins.

"Don't insult me by counting it eh?" the Toydarian grinned.

Squeezing the bag in his fist, the enraged Jedi stared in the direction the troops had headed.

"What are Imperial troops doing here in Mos Espa, Watto?"

Watto chuckled,

"Where've you been Ben? Slaves are the hottest new commodity in the Empire. Not technically legal, of course, but a lot of money gets made selling slaves off to Imperial Elites. _Lot_ of money. In fact, I hear that the Emperor himself awards slaves to regional governors he's especially pleased with. I tell ya-"

He snorted in disgust and beckoned for Obi Wan to come closer. The Jedi leaned forward and Watto whispered conspiratorially;

"From what I've heard, these Elites take a lot of pleasure from treating their slaves badly. Heard the word 'torture' a few times, even."

"Really?" Obi Wan replied gravely.

Watto grunted and nodded stiffly. The droids, being built with short attention spans, had resumed their duties. Asserting that he should do the same, Watto stooped painfully to retrieve his hydrospanner.

"Ahh, curse these old bones," he grumbled. "But I tell you, you didn't hear any of this from me. If I get-"

By the time he turned around, the man Watto knew as Ben Kenobi had vanished.

Commander Banyan was a clone trooper.

A veteran.

When the Jedi purges had begun he had been on the front lines, ridding the galaxy of the menace caused by those witches, those heretic users of the Force. His blaster rifle had burned holes in the supposedly "great" Ki Adi Mundi.

He had been one of the few to be personally awarded the Imperial Crest of honour by the Emperor himself.

Many of his brethren had fallen helping to lay the foundations upon which the glorious new Empire could be built. Aside from the talents gifted to him by his genetics, he had relied on his wits, determination and instinct to survive where others like him had fallen at the hands of the Jedi or that pitiful rabble, the 'Rebel Alliance'.

It was these instincts that had gnawed at him as they loaded that last slave, the girl, onto the ship.

The men had protested, their excuses feeble and irritating.

They had their quota.

There was a schedule to keep.

They were not like him. They had been drafted in from various backwater planets, preferring to aid the Empire in its mighty conquest of the galaxy, rather than be crushed under its heel. They cared not one whit for the glory of the Empire, only for satisfying their childish power fantasies by handling rifles and defiling maidens.

But Banyan had insisted.

As soon as he laid eyes on the old man, his suspicions had been piqued. His warrior's instincts agitated. When they had taken the girl he had been the only person without the good sense to mind his own business.

He had seen the scorn with which the old man had stared after his unit. He felt the anger exuding from the old man at his team's activities.

Probably some old sot who yearned for the comforts of a dead era. When the galaxy was ruled by the whim of a council of senile Force users. Did this old fool really think to contend with the will of the Empire? Common sense dictated that it would be a waste of time and resources tracking down and eliminating the old fool over a dirty look.

But an enemy of the Empire was an enemy of the Empire, however insignificant a threat they may seem.

It had taken nearly an hour for the scouts to locate him. His knowledge of the local area was commendable, for he worked the area adeptly, talking to all the right people. And all the people who knew the most talked to him, including a lot of people who should know better. People who would have to be permanently silenced by the time the day was over.

Beneath his helmet Commander Banyan could not help but grin.

It turned out the old man was looking for _them_.

Now, with his team in position at the mouth of the docking bay, their weapons trained upon the entrance he would find them. He would find them, and spend the rest of his short life regretting his foolishness.

"He's on his way." His lieutenant's voice crackled on the communicator. He remembered a time when the voices he heard were identical to his own. He loathed these new ones.

"Kill the lights."

Darkness enveloped the bay. They glared into the viewfinders of their rifles. The world was a fuzzy green in their lenses.

The footsteps that followed were slow and cautious but confident, unwavering, as it-

"Gentlemen." A voice addressed them from the darkness.

Through their viewfinders, the troops saw the vague form of a robed man. They set the shape in their sights.

Fingers poised on triggers.

"Await my command." Banyan hissed.

"It seems that you are intent upon meeting me with force-"

The figure parted its robes and produced something from its belt. Banyan squinted.

It couldn't be.

"Allow me to respond in kind."

With a _snap-hiss _the mouth of the dock was bathed in blue light.

Commander Banyan was just about to order his men to open fire when an unseen jolt sent him hurtling into the darkness.


	3. III: Darkness

III

The darkness was soothing.

She had lived most of her life in the perpetual darkness of the blind, but the darkness in which she now wallowed was far more substantial than the mere absence of light.

In her chamber neither sound nor movement bothered her unless bidden.

It had been His gift to her.

He who had understood her, and taken her in his arms, and shut out the dreadful cacophony of noise and blood and fire.

In this place, this wonderful temple of thick black silence, she was free.

Alone in the velvety black reassurance of her abode she knelt and waited.

She sensed His approach. Her heart quickened.

The giddy jolt of her heart became an icy tingle of pleasure that began in her bosom and danced through her stomach, leaping and spinning and tumbling through her body.

With a sight that paled the capabilities of her shrivelled, blackened and useless eyes she perceived Him. With a gaze that penetrated the thick permacrete confines of her cell she saw him stride to the door.

Through The Force he appeared a roiling body of crimson fire. Like a fluttering insect to a flame she felt her essence drawn to His power. His aura was bright and fierce and beautiful.

Without moving, she felt herself soar towards him. Her life force fluttered around his, like a faithful Kath Hound dancing at the feet of its master.

With an almost deafening hiss and clank, the door slid open. His aura flooded her senses. The shimmering warmth of his deep red life force reminded her so much of the rising sun of her home world. For a brief moment she was a child again, bathing in the light of the scarlet morning sun.

The sound of his breath was as music to her ears. The sound of the machinery that aided His breathing was like a symphony composed purely for her benefit. And surely it must have been, for who else's hearing was so finely attuned as hers? Who else could appreciate the sheer beauty of its mechanical cadence?

"My Lord. You humble me with your presence."

He reached out his hand to her and she took it readily, using the Force to float to her feet. Years ago she would never have attempted to do this in front of him, but years ago her levitation had been crass and clumsy. Now she rose with the fluidity and grace that she knew He expected of her.

Her every gesture, every movement had to be perfect.

_Flawless._

_Graceful._

_Beautiful._

That had been her mantra as she had stepped, strode, leapt and glided through the unlit confines of her cell. Hours, days, weeks, months, years spent practicing and composing and sculpting herself into a form worthy of His attention.

She took his hand, her pale fingers resting lightly on his dark glove, and bowed deeply. Through The Force it seemed as though her hand floated in the air. The mechanical parts of him were dark and hollow, like a black silhouette.

He spoke not a word but placed something at her feet that kissed the ground with a metallic clink.

He had brought her a gift.

She clasped her hands together in humble gratitude, standing erect. She would not dare stoop to retrieve the token without his permission.

"Take it, child."

The glorious sound of his voice, coupled with his generosity made her spirit soar.

She knelt at his feet and ran her hands over the slender, rectangular form of the plasteel box He had placed before her. Her hands were shaking.

Her fingers found the catch and she unlocked the case, giddy with anticipation of the touch of what might lie within.

Greedily her hands explored the quilted interior of the box, her fingertips quickly meeting something cold and smooth.

And sharp.

Cortosis blades.

Unhurriedly, but with excited reverence, she lifted the two dainty weapons from their soft inset housing. They were short and subtly curved. Of course He would have known that she might want to wear them mounted on her forearms. The edges were perfectly smooth and razor sharp, forged with the care and precision of The Empire's greatest swordsmiths. The grip had been moulded to suit her hands, the weight and heft of the hilts counterbalanced to suit her preferred style.

She spun the blades in her palms. The action was as smooth and flawless as the surface of the blades. She brought the twin swords together at the small of her back and bowed deeply.

"Would you like me to dance for you, my Lord?"

The merest inclination of her dark master's head was enough to make her heart fling itself against the wall of her chest. Sweat and heat from her now clammy hands frosted the pristine surface of the blades.

She bent low, arms outstretched, a salute in the ancient styles.

The precursor to the deadly dance that she was about to begin.

The first few movements were clumsy and inept, her nervousness tarnishing her technique with vulgarity. To many of her earlier tutors, the finest swordsmen in the Empire, they would have been acceptable, but she knew that He expected better of her.

She paused for a fraction of a second, half expecting him to command her to stop, to turn away from her in disgust and leave her in the darkness to contemplate her failure.

And yet He allowed her to continue.

Praise be to His infinite patience.

His generosity emboldened her and lent confidence to her technique. With elegant vigour she darted to and fro, dispatching imaginary enemies with a series of fluid gestures. She parried and stepped and spun and slashed, her new gifts gleaming with deadly grace. She began to sense his pleasure at her display and it seemed as though the ground could no longer hold her.

She leapt and twirled, bringing the dance to a frenzied climax. The aura surrounding her, the aura she could only see through The Force glittered and crackled like an elemental firework display.

With a final flourish she swept the blades back into the folds of her robe. Beneath the shroud that hid her face, she blushed.

"Most impressive." Was His only response.

To her the two words were worth an entire library of praise.

"And now, child I think that you are ready to serve me better."

Her breath caught in her throat and for that moment she could not hide her excitement from Him.

"You mean I am to begin my duty?"

Again there was the merest inclination of his head. She could barely resist the urge to throw her arms around him. But of course she would be killed, and rightly so, for such a trespass.

"You honour me. I will not fail you, Lord Vader."


	4. IV: The Mercenary

IV

Obi Wan Kenobi stilled his shaking hand by tightening his grip on the glass of juri juice.

Swilling the sickly, blue liquid around the glass he took a simple pleasure in watching it cling to the sides of the glass. It fascinated him more and more as he aged, how all things were bound together by The Force.

All about him the cantina bustled with the usual throng of black marketers, smugglers, thieves, podracers, gamblers, grafters and conniving opportunists. People without futures, dogged by grisly pasts. He discerned snippets of a hundred conversations in over a dozen languages. The words sometimes different, the intent usually the same;

"You hear about how Drax got busted?"

"You didn't hear this from me but-"

"What else could I do? I dumped my shipment and took off!"

"Damned Star Destroyers are staking out all our best routes."

"Gonna put me out of business!"

He felt a strange kinship with them, though he was quite certain that even amongst such a menagerie of ne'er-do-wells he was unique.

He was a Jedi. A Jedi who had just dispatched a squadron of Imperial Stormtroopers.

The adrenaline of battle was leaving him now and in its wake, a curious mixture of emotions gnawed at the aging warrior. Chief amongst them was anxiety. Kenobi had avoided death at the hands of Imperial forces, but in doing so he had created a scene that would require a great deal of cover-up.

He had been careful during his encounter with the Imperial Stormtroopers, had dispatched them by deflecting their own blaster bolts back at them. That much he had done prudently. He would have to sanitise the scene of the conflict and he would be forced to rely on local help to do so. Covering up the deaths of Imperial soldiers was dangerous enough. Not even the more scrupulous of the mercenaries and spacers that frequented these parts would turn a blind eye to bodies that bore the charred slashes of a lightsaber.

And Kenobi knew that, above all else, the Empire must never learn that a Jedi was hiding on Tatooine. If he were caught or killed, if his silent vigil over the Skywalker boy were to be terminated…

The consequences didn't bear thinking about.

His aged hands relaxed their grip on the glass. His contact would arrive soon. The situation was dire, certainly, but still under a modicum of control. He had sabotaged the gates to the hangar where the Stormtroopers' ship was docked. With luck he and his hired help would be able to remove all trace of the bodies, erase or alter the ship's flight log, bribe the bloated and corrupt officials to look the other way. He had enough money to play the game.

His gaze returned to the pool of luminescent blue liquid in his tumbler. The image stirred in him a memory that took some time to place.

The lakes of Naboo.

Despite the circumstances of his visit he had always found the planet to be one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. A beauty that was reflected in microcosm by its lost, one time Queen.

Padme.

He felt a twinge at the memory of her deep brown eyes, the genuine warmth of her smile.

He had loved her. He could admit that to himself now.

He had loved her in a way that Anakin had sensed, but never understood.

It was a love that he himself could scarcely understand, nearly two decades after her tragic death. It was certainly not the carnal, lustful attachment she had shared with Kenobi's former apprentice, nor was it entirely the avuncular love that one feels for the betrothed of a close friend.

The Jedi's reverie was interrupted abruptly when he became aware of a presence immediately to his right. Casting his eyes in that direction he discerned a figure clad in Echani fibre armour, registered the hilt of a blaster. Its hip holster clipped shut. A good sign.

"There's a sand storm approaching,"

The stranger's voice was hoarse and quietly spoken, yet Kenobi sensed an inner strength and confidence behind the voice. A confidence that ensured that the voice rarely needed to be raised. Relaxing visibly he spoke the agreed response;

"It would seem so, the banthas are restless."

The Jedi rose and offered a hand to his contact. Satisfied that he had found his mark, the visitor shook it and stepped around the small table, taking the seat opposite Kenobi.

"I am Danyl Starblade," the stranger announced, "And I understand you have a problem that could use my attention."

Kenobi stroked his beard, pensively, as he appraised the mercenary selected for him by his informants. He was in his early to mid forties, about the same height as he, and slender of build. His hair was sandy in colour and cropped close to his head. Above his right ear an ugly scar puckered the flesh of the temple reaching up to his hairline and back to the base of his skull. Deep worry lines were etched into the skin of his forehead and his green eyes, though they conveyed intelligence and moved furtively, were wreathed in a network of deeply set wrinkles. There are some faces that can tell the story of their wearer at a glance and Danyl Starblade's spoke of hardship and suffering. On his back he carried a bulky pack and in his gauntlets and thigh holsters were numerous pouches and compartments, presumably stuffed with all manner of gadgets and weapons.

A background in military service was a given, but the light, sleek Echani armour he wore and the regal standing of his character implied something else. An appreciation of culture and history? Extensive martial training? A strong sense of discipline and tradition? Any of those could be capitalised upon by Obi Wan Kenobi.

"My name is Ben," Kenobi decided to withhold his surname for the time being, "and I was told that you could be trusted."

"A word of advice, friend. If you're looking to deal out trust I'd look elsewhere. I doubt there's a man here worthy of it, including myself."

"Nevertheless," the gentleman warrior responded with a wry grin, choosing his next words carefully, "I have a task ahead of me that requires your expertise… As well as a certain personal disposition."

Starblade's eyebrows arched, his interest piqued.

"And what disposition might that be?"

"I have spent over a decade here on Tatooine. I know something of the types that come and go through space ports like this. A great many are ambivalent to the Empire, more still fear it. A few seek to oppose it. A few retain something that might resemble a conscience."

Starblade scoffed;

"Hating the Empire doesn't necessarily require a conscience. There are a lot of smugglers, peddlers and black marketers round these parts. None of them have any love for the Empire, but their reasons are far from noble. Imperial Governors permit a very select few black marketers to trade in exchange for a few personal indulgences and the right to seize any stock that interests them. And they come down _hard_ on the ones they won't turn a blind eye to."

Kenobi's eyes twinkled slightly, this mercenary grew more ideal for his purposes with every moment.

"But you don't share their views?"

Starblade considered his reply, taking a long hard look at the steely haired gentleman before him.

"I don't involve myself in politics. The Republic and the Empire are the same creature with different faces to me. There are some in the Empire who genuinely care for the citizens in their power and there were those in the Republic who were corrupt and greedy. People talk a lot about 'the good old days', hindsight clouds their memories, The Old Republic wasn't as just and fair as people remember. It's guilty of many of the same things that the Empire."

"Surely not all the same things."

There was a barely perceptible shift in Starblade's demeanour. A tightening of the jaw, a narrowing of the eyes.

"No… Not _all_ the same things,"

Slowly, deliberately, Starblade looked around the room before continuing.

"I don't know who you are, old man, but just having this conversation is an act of treason. Imperial spies are everywhere and there's nothing that I'd consider beneath them. Before I continue I should let you know that if I'm being used, if I get the slightest hunch that this is some kind of set up… well, I'm more than capable of taking out you and everyone else in this sand- hole."

A nod of acknowledgement was Kenobi's only response.

After taking one more furtive glance around, Starblade leaned in closer and spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

"For the past five years, the Emperor and a handful of Governors have been personally overseeing the capture and distribution of slaves. That's unforgivable, and it's something I intend to fight. Slavery and slave traders boil my blood. Personal reasons, I trust you won't press me any further on the subject."

Kenobi smiled affably,

"Of course. Though, at the risk of sounding trite, the slave trade is nothing new. Why, right here on Tatooine the merchants and junk dealers, even farmers have employed slave labour."

"But never so far in the interior as Coruscant. Slavery was seen as the disgusting and shameful business it was in the outer-rim territories. It never had the sanction of someone who's supposed to be a _leader_!"

On that last word, Starblade brought his fist down upon the small round table, adverting his eyes in silent, personal rage.

Kenobi bowed his head reverently, allowing his new companion a moment to compose himself.

He had learned everything he needed to know about his enigmatic new companion.


End file.
